


Child of the Moon

by snapeslittleblackbuttons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 01:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14094273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapeslittleblackbuttons/pseuds/snapeslittleblackbuttons
Summary: On the night he was first attacked by a werewolf, Remus Lupin met a girl at St Mungo's. Years later, they find each other again.Written for the 2018 Quills and Parchment Healer and Mediwizard Comp. WINNER: Overall Winner, Judges Favorite, Fan Favorite, Best Use of Hands, Pairing I Didn't Know I Needed; Runner-Up: Most Unique Plot, Best Plot Twist.A million, billion thanks to Maloreiy for her mentoring on this one. "Child of the Moon" would not be the same without her input.





	Child of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter isn't mine.

I have a memory.

The memory is clear, sharp, and solid—and immovable, as if it possesses physical weight.

At times, it rises unexpectedly like a shroud of thick mist, impossible to ignore and eclipsing all other thought; it surfaces when Dementors threaten, or Boggarts near, or during deepest night, when I am alone and the moon is waxing, taunting me with her swelling toward full.

It’s the sound—the echoes—that always find me first: shattering glass, guttural laughter, ripping flesh. Panicked steps in the hall. My mum’s screams. My father’s sharp sob when he understood what had happened. 

It’s the first thing that I’m able to remember, although I’m nearly five when it presses a lasting mark into the clay of my youth. It’s as if all before it was too ordinary, too mundane to leave an enduring impression—everything I knew was supplanted by the one event that delineates the boundary of my  _before_ with my  _now_.

I vaguely recall that in my  _before_ , I used to love looking up at the moon surrounded by deep night sky, although I possess no specific memory of turning my face upward in wonder and fascination to stare at her. I do know that I begged to watch the moon from my bed that night, and my mum, bless her soul, left my bedroom curtains open. That night, the night of my first memory, the moon was at her largest, her cold light somehow bright and ripe with promise.

The glint of sharp teeth, quicker than a heartbeat, was my only warning the moon would no longer remain a friend.

And there, the memory blinds me.

* * *

 

The girl was there that night, inexplicably, perched on the edge of a mossy-green molded plastic chair in a shabby corner of St Mungo’s. She was cradling one hand gently in her other as if it were injured, smears of dried blood thinly painting her ruined skin a rusty, reddish brown.

The girl’s eyes followed me as I drifted by her on the medi-gurney, and I saw that they were swollen with tears, with more waiting to spill. They glistened, their colour reminding me of a pale, sun-warmed sky on a summer day. As she took me in, the silvery blue widened in shock, then softened in what could only have been compassion.

She gifted me a tentative smile.

I must have looked…well, I can only imagine how I looked: skin rent open by a monster, covered in blood, quivering in terror.

Certain to die.

We stared at each other in silence as screams careened off the rigid tile walls.

_“I don’t know what we can do!”_

_“Where’s Connor? We need Connor for this!”_

_“Did you see him? Should we even bother? Think of the life we’d be condemning him to!”_

_“Shield yourself, Trainee Smethwyck! Get some gloves, man! He’s just been infected!”_

The girl rose from her chair and approached me slowly, gracefully, seeming to forget her own wound as she came to stand at my side. She was older than me, maybe seven or eight—perhaps twice my age, at most. Her blue dress had been torn and stained the same colour as her hand. She smelled of blood, and something else I couldn’t identify. Venom, perhaps?

I started to shake.

“It’s okay,” the girl whispered, her voice the only thing steady and calm within reach. “You’re going to be just fine.”

Suddenly, I wished I knew her name.

I opened my mouth to ask her what it was, but found no words would come. She seemed to already know what I was going to say, so before I could try again, she said, “I’m Pandora.”

And the girl took my hand in both of hers.

* * *

 

The strange girl’s kindness on that night is marked in my mind, as those kinds of things often are, because she was the last person to show me compassion—outside of my mum and dad—for six long years. You see, for a child of barely five, true understanding of my condition came only from having been taught it—repeatedly—through the actions of prejudice, discrimination, hatred, and fear.

But then  _they_ saved me. Their friendship—hell, their  _presence_ was something I never deserved, something no part of me could earn. But each month, year after year, they faced the bright moon with me, part grim determination, and part—well, now that they’re gone, I can tell you the truth—part buzzing excitement. 

By our second year at Hogwarts, James and Sirius and Peter had unearthed my secret and became consumed with a fierce need to protect me from the monster living under my skin. Within weeks of their discovery, they devised a plan to accompany me on my monthly excursions under the moon.

I watched, fascinated, as they tucked mandrake leaves under their tongues and waited, gleefully giddy, for thirty long days. I watched them recite the incantation at dawn and twilight with scary focus, and I watched the sky with them as they scanned for lightning so the course of magic could complete.

And I saw their faces alight in wonder as they realized their effort had been successful. 

All at once, they were there: Prongs, with his menacing, bulky antlers threatening me, should I toe out of line; Padfoot, with his familiar, canine demeanor, communicating with me in ways the others couldn’t; and Wormtail, with his fidgety, humorous mannerisms, drawing me out of ever-looming despair.

And, like the hand Pandora had offered during the worst of nights, their friendship drew me out of a darkness as certain as death.

In return, there was nothing I wouldn’t have done for them.

The year after we graduated, though, everything began to disintegrate. The war had done much more than kill the innocent; it poisoned all that was good, by defiling friendships and breeding suspicion. James and Lily had gone into hiding, and Peter was scarce—as expected—although I’m certain my knowledge of his betrayal now colours my recollection of him.

Worst of all, Sirius refused to believe that I wasn’t a spy.

By the spring of 1980, I found myself alone. It had been over four years since I transformed without Prongs, Padfoot, and Wormtail, and I knew without them, I would be lost.

* * *

 

**May 1980**

I’m told my neighbor found me among the bloody rubble of my home, and took me to St Mungo’s.

I have no memory of it.

I was nearly too weak to open my eyes, but, in truth, there was no need. I knew where I was by smell alone: the Dai Llewellyn Ward for Creature-Induced Injuries—something I found highly ironic, given I was both creature as well as victim. I’d avoided the place for years, both by luck and the grace of those who had, until late, surrounded me under the pleasure of the moon.

The ward was dingy and small, adorned with one tiny window, its glass grimy with dirt. The ceiling glowed benignly from crystal bubbles set in the center like a soft chandelier, a seemingly odd addition to the old paint and mismatched furniture.

“You’ve been admitted to St Mungo’s,” intoned a Mediwitch who had appeared from behind a privacy curtain that prevented others from having to see me. Even though I’d been bathed in Dittany, I suppose I still made a bit of a gruesome display.

I tried to shake my head, to communicate that I understood.

“Rest, Mr Lupin. The Healer will be in to check on you a little later.”

My body gave me no choice but to obey.

* * *

 

When I opened my eyes again, a Healer was standing near my bed making notes on a clipboard with a slender quill. She raised her pale eyes from her paperwork to scrutinize me. “Mr Lupin.”

I mumbled my shock, my mouth too dry to form coherent words. Wandlessly, she sent the clipboard and quill spinning across the room and regarded me over crossed arms.

I felt taken apart and reassembled by her gaze. It was a gaze that whispered in my memory for fourteen years.

“Have you ever considered treating yourself with Wolfsbane, Mr Lupin?” she asked crisply.

“Excuse me?” I managed.

She pressed her lips together as if my response annoyed her in some way. “Wolfsbane? Surely you are familiar with it?”

“I…yes.”

“Just a suggestion. You would do well to look into it.”

Before I could reply, she turned on her heel and left the room, her lime-green robes rippling furiously in her wake.

* * *

 

“Forgive me.”

I had awoken that evening to find the same witch perched on a plastic green chair, sitting in the corner in the room’s half-light. Her garish Healer robes were nowhere to be seen.

The chair might have been the same one she had been sitting on the first night I met her.

“Forgive you?” I echoed stupidly.

“Yes. I…was angry when I first saw you earlier today. Forgive me.”

Most react in fear when they realize what I am. But anger? Only when I had inadvertently put a loved one in danger. And as far as I knew, I hadn’t endangered anyone in St Mungo’s. At least not yet.

“Why were you angry?”

“I hated seeing you like that.” She sighed as if she were resigned to some unspoken, sad fate. “It almost killed me to see you nearly dead.”

I stared at her, not knowing what to say.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked after a long moment, watching me with eyes the colour of a pale summer sky.

_…Mediwitches and Healers screaming orders and discussing me as if I am unable to hear them…my parents are gone, relegated to a waiting room down the hall…echoes of panic careen off the antiseptic walls…I wait alone, until a stranger, a girl, reaches for my hand…_

“You. It’s…you.” I swallowed against a bone-dry throat. “Pandora.”

She nodded. “It’s been almost fifteen years.”

“You remember me,” I said, baffled.

“Of course.”

“I never got a chance to thank you for holding my hand that night.”

“You’re welcome.” She shifted in her chair, as if the words she spoke made her uncomfortable. “I often wondered if I would ever see you here, but each month went by and you never came. After a while, I just assumed you used Wolfsbane. I never wanted you to suffer a rough moon, of course—but I always wished our paths would cross again.” She paused for a moment. “I felt that I shouldn’t try to seek you out. You might think you had a stalker or something.” she added, trying for flippancy. “I just never forgot you. I couldn’t.”

There was something about the way she spoke her last two words, something that made me squirm inside.

I let the silence saturate the air between us until she was ready to speak again.

“They’re going to release you tomorrow. I…eh…I read the report when you were brought in. I know you probably won’t have enough magic to repair your home for another few days, and honestly, I don’t know if it would even be safe for you to return, now that your neighbor is aware...” She licked her lips. “I realize this is a rather odd thing to ask, but do you need a place to stay for a little while? I have spare bedroom.”

I smelled her conflict. I decided to give her a way out if she didn’t truly want me there. “I have an owl that needs to be let out,” I said as emotionlessly as I could.

“You don’t.”

“How do you know?”

“The same way you already know that I don’t have any pets. The same way you know that I have a half of a roast beef sandwich in my bag.” A soft smile tugged at her lips. “Besides, I can just tell.”

I frowned at that. “Do you always offer your spare bedroom to former patients?”

“Just think about it, okay?”

“Okay.”

She rose from her chair and left without a word.

* * *

 

Pandora came to collect me at the end of the next day, standing at the edge of the flimsy privacy curtain, waiting for my decision in silence.

“I don’t think it would be wise to return to my cottage,” I said. I felt bad imposing on her, but could see no other option. I needed another day or two to regain my strength, and I couldn’t remain at St Mungo’s any longer.

She gifted me one of her sad smiles. “Okay.”

I side-alonged with her to her home, and she busied herself in the pantry searching for tea, while I fidgeted and paced behind her in the kitchen.

“I can’t afford it,” I said after a minute of watching her.

“Afford what?” She handed me a cup and settled down on a wood chair. Eyes as warm as a summer day regarded me from across the table, promising me understanding. Acceptance.

“Wolfsbane,” I said, taking a long swallow of the tea she pushed toward me. “It’s the irony of it all. I can’t hold a job long enough to pay for it. Once anyone figures out what I am, let’s just say that I’m kindly asked to seek employment elsewhere. I was never particularly good at potions, so brewing it is out of the question, even if I could afford the ingredients.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. It seemed genuine.

“How did you know that I don’t have any pets?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

“I think you know,” she said.

“Your sense of smell. It’s like mine.”

She shook her head. “It’s true. Something happened the night I met you, when we touched. Apparently because your infection was new and our blood mingled from the bite on my hand, I gained some of your…qualities.”

I drew a sharp breath. “I—”

“All good ones, Remus.” She absently stroked a small scar on her hand. “I have a highly developed sense of smell, especially when it comes to other creatures—or food.” Her smile widened. “I can also sense emotions in others. That part seems to be more heightened with you. Perhaps it’s because you infected me.”

She must have sensed my horror. “ _Somewhat_ infected me, that is,” she amended.

“Anything else that…I should know about?” I managed.

“A desire to bite when cornered,” she said, with a small laugh.

“I’m sorry. I would have never let you touch me if I—”

“Don’t be sorry.” She reached across the small space between us and took my hands in hers. I flinched; she held them tighter. “ _I’m_  not sorry. The ability to smell like we can is a gift, especially for my work at St Mungo’s. And sensing emotions? Imagine the things I can do at the hospital that no one else can!” Her eyes danced. “Really, Remus, it’s a gift. And there’s nothing else. None of what you go through.”

While I was relieved to know she didn’t suffer for the compassion she’d shown, her revelation unnerved me. But I could see how an exacting sense of smell—unquestionably thousands of times greater than a normal wizard’s—might help her diagnose injury or sickness. I decided to trust her words. 

“I’m sure you’ve seen some pretty rough things at St Mungo’s.”

“As a Healer, I think you’re bound to, especially during a war. It’s the nature of it, you know? Sometimes they call me to help on another floor…” she stopped, an unspoken memory stilling her tongue. “I…it doesn’t matter.”

“You must be very strong.”

“You do what you have to.” She regarded the remains of her tea as she swirled the last of it in her cup. “I’m in the process of developing spells to reverse dark curses. I hope it will help those who show up at St Mungo’s, suffering.”

“Developing new spells to combat dark magic can be a bit dangerous.”

“This from the werewolf sitting in my kitchen,” she quipped. “Really, though, it would be worth it if I could get some of them to work.”

“I’m sure you will.”

The Earl Grey was eventually replaced by Butterbeer, and then by Ogden’s; the conversation moved to a couch in the sitting room, and continued until there were only embers left of the once-roaring fire. When we parted, it was reluctantly.

That night she came in my room as I lay awake in bed; she stood by the doorway and watched me as the grey light filtered in through the thin curtains. Wordlessly, I pulled the sheet back and she slipped in next to me. We slept nestled against each other, her spine to my belly, the feel of each other’s skin cushioning us against the horrors of what lay in our memories, and what could rise in our dreams.

* * *

 

James and Sirius were two stars spinning around each other—what Muggles call a binary system—attracting admirers with ease by drawing them into orbit, while they stayed fixed on one another. I was only ever their satellite: I had no light of my own. I just reflected their brilliance, a mere moon to their suns. No one had ever sought me out.

Until Pandora.

The following night she came to me while I was sitting in the dark on her sofa, watching the fire consume the timber in the hearth, and brooding over the loss of my home. She knelt in front of me. Her soft fingertips reached for my face, caressing my skin.

“Let me,” she whispered.

I froze. I detected no fear in her, just desire. But my Lycanthropy…

“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “You cannot hurt me.”

She stood and took me by the hand, leading me down the narrow hall to her room, where the curtains had been left wide to welcome the light of a bright waning moon. It spilled onto the bed.

Silently, she laid down, stretching out before me with her golden hair splayed beneath her. The moonlight caressed her in ways I would never be able to, emphasizing each swell of breast and each tender hollow of skin. She looked a goddess—what I imagined her namesake would—the first woman created by the ancients.  

She would be my first.

I watched, mesmerized, as she opened herself up to me, lips parted and eyes closed, sighing in pleasure. Despite the monster seething under my skin and clawing for release, like a thirsty man who could not be sated, I took her gently. Slowly.

As if we had all the time left in the world.

* * *

 

More than three weeks had passed, and I had stayed far, far too long. The moon was due.

“I have to go. Tomorrow…” I spoke it softly, regretfully, as Pandora lay with her head on my chest.

“I know. I can feel it, too.” She pulled slightly back and turned her light eyes to mine. “You know you can stay. I’ll help you through it. And I can pay for some Wolfsbane.”

“You know I can’t ask that of you. And you know it doesn’t make it all go away. I will still change.”

Silence grew. A gentle wind played outside, moving the trees.

“Will you come back?” she whispered.

“I don’t know.”

She shook her head in understanding.

I claimed her hard that night, as if I wanted my memory bound in her skin, as if each thrust would impress an indelible mark not only in her flesh, but in some part of her unseen. The next morning, there was something different in the air, something that I hadn’t caught in the long weeks spent acquainting myself with her body.

I had noticed the same scent on Lily before she went into hiding. I knew, of course, what it meant. I’m certain Pandora did, too.

I collected my belongings into a battered trunk and left anyway.

The following week, Pandora sent her Patronus to find me, to make sure the swollen moon hadn’t ruined me for good. Long before her silvery wolf approached my battered body, I vowed never to impose this monster on a witch so willing to have me. She was too beautiful, too trusting, and now, too fragile. It would be better for everyone if I stayed lost.

Years later, I learned Pandora had been killed by a spell of her own creation, leaving behind a husband and a child. I had no time for grieving when I heard. Her death was just another drop in an ocean of grief that the war had left in its wake. 

* * *

 

**September 1993**

“Who can tell me where one typically finds a Grindylow?”

A blonde girl, sitting two-thirds of the way back in my DADA classroom, raises her hand weightlessly, gracefully, to answer my opening question.

She is the very image of a girl imbedded in a memory that I am loath to relive.

But, as always, the memory insists.

“Miss…?” I manage.

Her large eyes widen when I choose her out of the field of eager-to-impress students. “Lovegood, Professor.”

“Eh, Miss Lovegood. Continue.”

“Gindylows are typically found in weed beds at that bottom of lakes. You can see them in Britain and Ireland, but a large community lives in Yorkshire, actually,” she recites in a lilting, sing-song voice. I have the distinct impression that she visits the creatures regularly.

“Very good.”

Half-heartedly, I continue with the lecture, not even certain what I say for the rest of the period. Somehow, I manage to ask the girl to stop by my desk before leaving, although I am unsure what I will say to her once she does.

“You wanted to see me, Professor?”

Now that she is standing before me, I notice her eyes are the colour of a sun-warmed sky.

Unlike the colour of anyone else’s that I have ever seen.

Save one.

The girl continues, filling the silence that had grown in the air between us. “I can tell you’ve been to the owlery, and the greenhouse near the mandrake leaves. You touched the geranium with your left hand.”

I shake my head fractionally. “I beg your—”

“I can smell things most people can’t, Professor. I can tell where animals and creatures live. My mum could, too.”

I voice the standard response, while tamping down the sorrow from a loss I have never truly acknowledged. “I heard that your mother passed. I am sorry.”

“Thank you.” The girl studies my face for a moment, her head cocked to one side as if she is listening to something beyond hearing. “You knew her,” she says simply. Her gaze seems to sift through me, as if she is weighing what she sees in my memory, appraising its worth. Its significance.

“I did.” I stop, wondering how much to reveal. “You look quite a bit like her, Miss Lovegood.”

“I do.” She nods, understanding my words for the compliment they are. “I inherited my sense of smell from my father,” she continues, taking a step toward me.

I feel the colour drain from my face. “Miss Lovegood—”

“Call me Luna, if you please, Professor.”

“Luna?” I echo numbly.

“I’m named after the moon, because it reminded Mum of my father.” She gives me a long, searching look. “She also said that things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end. If not always in the ways we expect.”

I'm not surprised when the girl takes my hand in both of hers. 

I close my eyes and allow myself a small smile in response. “So they do, Miss Lovegood. So they do.”

 


End file.
